


Broken Pieces

by zarabithia



Category: Captain America (2011), Marvel Avengers Movies Universe
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, M/M, PTSD, community: hurt/comfort bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-07
Updated: 2012-09-07
Packaged: 2017-11-13 17:58:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/506181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zarabithia/pseuds/zarabithia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not all of Bucky's nightmares actually happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken Pieces

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the hurt/comfort "possession / mind control " prompt. Additionally, this fic does not contain any actual rape happening, but it does contain references to rape.

There are always nightmares, of course. The therapists tell him that they will get better, but as far as Bucky can tell, it's been a year and there's no sign of that. So it's possible that the therapists are entirely full of shit, and Bucky will never feel badly about skipping his sessions, no matter how much Fury bitches or Natalia lectures him.

There's always a production, of course. Bucky would prefer there not to be, but sleeping with a super soldier makes some things – such as a lack of privacy when he wakes up gasping in horror and feeling helpless all over again – inevitable. 

Generally, Steve's rolled over on his side, staring at him with big, wide blue eyes, and a quiet, "It's okay, Bucky. You're with me. You're safe." 

And by the time the voice registers, Bucky forces his breathing to slow down so that he can grumble at the fact that he's managed to wake Steve up yet again. "Go back to sleep," he says, always, because "It's just a dream." 

They've reached a point where Steve doesn't argue with him. There's a small, petty portion of Bucky that takes that as a victory. Even as he makes his way to the kitchen, rustles around in the cupboard for the vodka that burns going down his throat for more than the usual reasons, and pours himself a glass. 

The pettiness is a sign of all the faults that made him the kind of person that the Russians had been able to mold into a perfect assassin, and if Bucky thinks too long on that, he takes a second drink. 

But he gets over his pettiness, slides the vodka back into the cupboard, and pours Steve a glass of water. He brings it back to the room and gives it to Steve, who is always still awake. 

"In case you were thirsty," Bucky tells him, and crawls back into the bed. 

Steve takes a drink, always, and Bucky pretends to ignore the frown that crosses Steve's forehead. Steve has Sam, now, to deal with the forehead creases that Bucky can't quite smooth away. Bucky _also_ pretends to ignore the fact that soothing Steve's forehead creases away used to be his job, instead of causing them, and goes back to sleep. 

That's their routine, and most nights they spend together, they follow it. 

But if their years in the war taught them nothing else, it's that every rule has an exception, and tonight is one of those. 

Tonight, instead of waking himself up, Steve's hands are shaking his shoulders. Bucky reaches up and grasps a hold of Steve's arms, not really seeing the face in front of him.

But the face in his dream is perfectly vivid, and full of the kind of pain that Bucky can't quite shake. 

"Bucky. _Bucky._ " It's amazing how much Steve's voice has changed, over the years. During The War, that voice always sounded like the scrawny kid from Brooklyn who regularly got his ass kicked in back alleys. But these days, there's an added depth of someone who's lost soldiers and been given an army of strangers to command. 

It's usually _Steve_ lying beside him, trying to reassure him. Tonight, it's _Captain America._

That disconnect is enough, and Bucky finally jerks out of the dream and realizes where he is. 

"You're home. Safe. Brooklyn. Our apartment." Steve's voice is giving him short, direct instructions, and Steve's arms haven't let go of Bucky's, which is strange, because normally, Steve knows better than to touch before Bucky's finished waking up all the way.

And when Steve has the nightmares, Bucky knows to do the same. Their broken pieces fit together well, that way.

"You can let go now," Bucky says, and his voice sounds hoarse, even to himself. Hoarse and wary and afraid – none of the things he's supposed to be, to Steve. Hell, they aren't even things that Steve let himself be, back when he very easily could have.

Steve lets go immediately, and looks sheepish, which he hasn't looked since that time that Bucky asked if the girls _really_ took their robes off in art class. "You were yelling," Steve explains. "I tried to ... yell back, but it wasn't working." 

"It was just a dream, Steve. Don't worry about it." 

Steve sits back on his haunches, then, frowning at Bucky, and Bucky pretends that isn't disappointment all over Steve's face. Just like he pretends that his heart isn't still racing, and just like he pretends that he doesn't want to run out of the apartment and find a nice alley somewhere to have a good long cry.

"Do you want me to call Natasha?" 

It's perfectly balanced, perfectly neutral, but the frown on Steve's face completely ruins the calmness of his voice. 

"Y'know, Hawkeye always claimed you were going to get jealous of Natalia. I figured you'd know better. Guess I owe him $50," Bucky says flippantly. He sits up in the bed, and the cool breeze that brushes over his skin is the first indication that he has of just how much sweat the latest nightmare has cost him. 

He glances, briefly, at the pillow. It's soaked. 

"It's not jealousy." Steve sounds frustrated, beside him. "I'm glad you have someone you feel comfortable talking about your nightmares to. I just – I just wish you felt like you could tell me, too." 

"You have the weight of the world on your shoulders every fucking day, Steve," Bucky reminds him, "And your teammates don't mind letting you carry all their shit, too."

"It's what teammates do for each other." 

"You don't need my shit on top of it."

"You used to protect me, Buck. No matter how much I fought against it, or claimed I didn't need it, you were my protector. So many times .... that scrawny orphan wouldn't have made it, if you hadn't been fighting at his side. I'm not jealousy of Natasha. But I wish you would let _me_ do the protecting."

Steve's blows have gotten better over the years, too. This one hits Bucky right square in the gut, and for a moment, he can't breathe. 

When he can breathe again, Steve's kneeling in front of the bed, with a glass of vodka in his hand. Bucky knows he's fucked up, then, because Steve's never been a big fan of getting drunk to solve his problems. 

Bucky knows this, but he takes the glass, anyway, and wishes for the bottle instead. The vodka feels like liquid knives going down his throat, but Bucky still wishes for more of it. 

"I'm sorry," Steve says, as though any of this mess is his fault. "I know better than anyone that pushing you right now is a bad idea, and I shouldn't have done that. But I've never heard you scream that badly before, and it just shook me up." 

"Don't be sorry." Bucky wants to shrug it off, and tell Steve it's fine, that it doesn't matter. He wants to give another empty reassurance, but he's already hurt Steve, and he can't lie to him on top of it.

Bucky remembers when lying and a well-placed borrow used to get them through the day, back when they had both been hungry all the time. But then, he's never been much good at lying to Steve. 

So instead he says, "Do you remember Mary Katherine Connelly?" 

Steve blinks, but nods, and a sly grin slips over his face, as he sits up slowly and sits next to Bucky on the bed. There's plenty of space, as though he's afraid of sending Bucky into another round of not being able to breathe. "Sure I do. Hard to forget. She was a good girl, and you spent half the night telling me how much you wished she'd been a bad girl instead. And the other half of the night was our first time."

There's a wistfulness there, and Bucky has to ignore it, to focus on his breathing, instead. "I don't think we're supposed to call them 'good girls' and 'bad girls' anymore." 

"We're not," Steve agrees. "Considering how we spent that night, and many nights since, it's probably a bit hypocritical, anyway." 

"I was dreaming about that night," Bucky tells him, and Bucky stares down at the glass, because he can't deal with looking at Steve right now. 

"Did your memories get jumped up, with something else?" Steve asks, as though it's a perfectly natural thing to happen. 

"You could say that. It happen to you a lot?" 

There's a deep breath, and Bucky steals a glance long enough to see Steve frowning at the closet doors, instead of at Bucky. 

"Sometimes, it's Peggy falling off that train. Sometimes, it's your voice breaking up over the line while I'm crashing the plane. Sometimes, it's Howard under Loki's spell. Sometimes, it's Clint being held by the Russians," Steve says, quietly. 

That's not a good sign. Steve's been at this "healing" thing longer than Bucky has, and if he hasn't gotten any better, then the therapists are definitely full of shit. 

"Probably shouldn't tell Natalia that last one," Bucky tells him, though he wants to say, _"Is Clint as eager to kill you as I was?"_

"She's probably already familiar with it. On a nightly basis, I'd wager," Steve answers, and because he's never been good at dancing around the subject, he asks, "Did the Russians have Mary Katherine? In your dream?" 

"No." Bucky remembers that soft red hair, pinned perfectly, and thinks of how his handlers would have destroyed everything that had made her so great. He shudders at the very idea, before he continues. "It was just .... just you and me."

"Was I hurting you?" 

Bucky tries to laugh, but all he can make is a dry cough sound. It's too bad, because the idea of _Steve_ hurting _him_ is hilarious. "No. I was hurting you." 

"Because of the Russians? Bucky, what they did to you wasn't your fault." 

"No. Not because of Karpov. It didn't have anything to do with Winter Soldier. It was just us. We were back on that bed in the apartment - " The bed they're currently sitting on probably cost a good deal more than the used cotton mattress that they'd managed to purchase after scraping together all of Bucky's pool winnings and combining them with Steve's salary. Bucky can see that bed so clearly right now, much smaller than the one they're currently sharing, and completely lacking the springs that bounce so loudly when they're fucking. 

"But you never hurt me," Steve says, and there's a genuine confusion to his voice. 

"I was, in my dream. I was ... you were so small then, and so _good._ I mean, you're always good, you're the good one, but ... in my dream, I was taking advantage of that. I was ... _forcing_ you, and you weren't strong enough to fight back." 

Bucky makes himself look at Steve, then, because if there's disappointment on that face, Bucky thinks he deserves to see it. 

But there's not any, and Bucky can't help the sigh of relief that escapes his lips.

"Bucky," Steve says, "You were my _protector_ and my _best friend._ You never hurt me, and you certainly never forced me to do anything that I didn't want to do. I know I was never as loud as you were, but I thought I made it pretty clear how happy I was with you. How happy I still am with you." 

"Never?" It's not what Bucky means to ask, but it stumbles out of his mouth, anyway. It's stupid, but his mouth has a way of saying things to Steve all by itself, without any actual input from Bucky's brain, just like it had, all those years ago on that cotton bed after Mary Katherine had broken up with him. 

" _Never._ You never hurt me, and you never would, Bucky." 

"You sound so sure about it," Bucky says. 

"I'd have to be crazy to think you'd ever hurt me, of your own free will, Bucky." 

"Well..." This time, Bucky does manage something resembling a laugh. "I think it's safe to say that I'm not entirely sane, Steve. Hence, the therapists." 

Since Steve is a good guy, he doesn't mention all the sessions Bucky skips, or the fact that Bucky would stop going immediately, except that S.H.I.E.L.D. makes them mandatory. 

Steve does sigh, though. "Bucky, I know that you have a lot of guilt built up inside. And I know that's going to take time to address. I know I can't fix it overnight, no matter how much I want to. But it's one thing to have guilt about something that Karpov made you do, and it's another entirely to have guilt about something that never, **ever** happened." 

Bucky knows that Steve is right, and his heart isn't threatening to burst through his chest anymore, so he leans over and locks fingers with Steve. "I know it's stupid, Steve, but - "

"But you can't help it. Because sometimes your memory gets jumbled up," Steve interrupts, leaning over to kiss Bucky lightly on the forehead. "I know. Should I go get the rest of the vodka?" 

"Sure, I'll split it with you," Bucky promises. "Even if you might as well just pour yourself a bottle of water, for all the good that the vodka will do."

"Me drinking half of it will split your hangover in half," Steve promises, and Bucky can feel the reluctance in him, as he lets go of Bucky's hand and heads into the kitchen.

Steve tosses a protective look over his shoulder half way there, and Bucky tries not to feel even more guilty about the fact that he's just let his fucked up memories corrupt something that Steve probably holds very dear. 

Karpov has already taken enough. He can't have _that_ too.

So when Steve comes back with the bottle, Bucky asks Steve to tell him about their first time, the way that Steve remembers it. Steve smiles at Bucky, ridiculously happy to do so, and pulls him close. 

Steve used to be so much smaller, but right now, Bucky is grateful for the size of those arms and the way they feel around him. 

Even if Steve does hog the vodka all night, it's okay, because the stories that lull Bucky back to sleep are entirely worth it.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [broken pieces (the rough edges remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1273228) by [legete](https://archiveofourown.org/users/legete/pseuds/legete)




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